The Belle of the Boulevard
by Shtuff
Summary: Two floundering souls collide in a bar. Sometimes even the briefest meeting of lives can change everything.


**Man, this thing is LONG. It kind of got away from me, I guess. **

**Before we begin, I just want to clarify that I totally support the idea of Guerrero's son actually being Guerrero's son (prefer it, in fact) and him being happily married to the babymama. It's just so against everything else in his life, it's perfect for him-a walking contradiction. But this idea wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. So here it is.  
**

**I have mixed feelings about it, to be honest. A part of me really likes it, a part of me really doesn't. So I thought I would submit it for judging. :) **

**Constructive critiscim is welcome. Flames will be used to roast marshmellows. ****  
**

_

* * *

Down in a local bar _

_Out on the boulevard _

_The sound of an old guitar is saving you _

_Don't turn away _

_Dry your eyes, dry your eyes _

_Don't be afraid _

_Or keep it all inside, all inside _

_When you fall apart_

_Gonna dry your eyes, dry your eyes _

_Life is always hard _

_For the belle of the boulevard _

-Belle of the Boulevard, **Dashboard Confessional

* * *

**

The door cracked beneath the force of his boot and he tumbled inside with far less than his usual predatory grace, because he wasn't a predator today. Not today. Today he was a man—desperate and afraid of losing something that mattered. The smell hit him like a slap in the face and he paused just inside the dingy apartment, squinting into the sifting shadows for the source.

It smelled like death.

And the heart he'd forgotten he had beat madly in his chest.

Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to slow down and be professional—strong and focused and most importantly, _unattached. _But that was impossible because he had blown by unattached several exits ago and now he was stuck with his foot pressing the pedal to the floor down a one way street.

So he threw pretenses away for a time when someone else was around to judge him and exploded into motion, tearing through the apartment with the force of a madman.

He found her in the bathroom.

She was cold and still on the tiles—her long brown hair fanned out around her. But it was the blood that got him, dripping from her wrists across the dirty tile and turning the small pill bottle into an island. The knife she'd used was pressed up against the wall where it had clattered to a stop after escaping her limp hand.

She was dead. Had been for hours.

He'd hesitated too long to save her from herself.

Standing over her body, he didn't cry because he'd long ago forgotten how, but something cracked sharp and loud in his chest. He wondered if it was grief.

* * *

_**Before **_

He hated the French Quarter—too many colorful characters and street magicians looking to con you, too much noise and drunken revelry, and it had never been his kind of insane. While he used jokes and wit to hide the dark undercurrents of himself, he'd never appreciated the city that tried the same trick with bright lights and false promises of happiness.

He hated the French Quarter, but he hated potential clients who were late even more. Spinning his glass with his hand, he shot a glance at the door of the bar and out into the street beyond and let out a sharp sigh of irritation. Whoever this idiot was, he would a need an excuse of soundproof, airtight, end of the world proportions to save himself from a lot of pain.

"Hey," a female voice said to his right and he gritted his teeth, wondering if this could possibly get any worse.

Sliding his gaze down the bar, he saw a young woman with flowing dark hair, a winning smile, and shadow-tinted eyes. A native, probably. She adjusted her hat with a nimble hand when she noticed that she'd caught his attention, and nodded at the drink his hands.

"A little early, isn't it?"

He shrugged, hoping if he dropped the temperature of the room enough, she'd take the hint and find someone else to bug. "Depends on how you define early, dude. Besides, you're one to talk."

He lowered his gaze pointedly to the drink she was cradling. She glanced down and then mimicked his careless shrug. "I guess our definitions of early are the same."

He snorted and turned away—feeling the raw ends of his nerves grate together. He would make the client pay double for forcing him to sit and listen to this chick's idle chatter. But the most unsettling thing, sitting in a part of his mind he didn't often visit, was the fact that he _needed _this job. He hadn't _needed _a job in years, and his fingers clenched tightly around his glass at the hard reality of it.

The Old Man had blacklisted him—because he let Junior live, because he was a failure, because he was a liability—and now here he sat wasting away in a bar in New Orleans in the hopes that his client showed up.

It made his blood _boil. _

And this woman with the hat and the sparkling necklaces was only stirring the cauldron.

"You don't look like you're having a good day," said woman murmured suddenly.

He jerked back around on the barstool and leveled her with a glare that usually made his prey break into uncontrollable hysterics. "Can't you take a hint?"

The stiffening of her shoulders was the only thing that gave away her fear. "I took your hint and decided not to do anything about it," she fired back, raising her chin defiantly but only looking young.

"Well how about this: leave, _now_," he snapped—low and dangerous and his gun burned inside his jacket.

His carefully constructed world was falling apart around him, and this _girl _in pretty clothes thought she could what, help, flirt?

There was something in her eyes that he couldn't understand. "I'm used to dangerous men," she said firmly. "And if I know anything about life it's that even they need to talk sometimes."

He let out a soft, incredulous bark of laughter, and pushed back from the bar, slapping down money for his drink. He paused as he passed her chair, hands stuffed in his pockets, and she stared at him with a mixture of uncertainty and determination.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" he asked harshly, but beneath all the frustration, he could feel amusement building.

Her smile was shaky, but clearly visible. "Yeah. I do."

He didn't look back as he left the bar, chalking up the experience as one of the strangest he'd had in awhile, and set off to find a motel. He was ten steps from the bar when his cell phone buzzed. It was his client, asking if they could move the appointment to the following day.

When he hung up, it took every ounce of professionalism he had left to keep himself from hurling the phone against the nearest wall.

* * *

The only perk of the French Quarter was that every building under the sun had some kind of balcony attached to it, including his seedy hotel off Bourbon street.

Darkness crept across the sky, chasing the sun beneath the distant skyscrapers of New Orleans, he seated himself on the little iron balcony and propped his feet up on the railing, watching the drag queens and street performers emerging from the shadows of the bars onto the street, framed by the glowing lamps.

There was too much color, too much false gaiety, but it was something to look at—a dressed-up distraction—and so he watched as the lamps grew brighter and reflected the glitter and glass.

And lit up the silver earrings of a brunette in a short black dress, leaning against the wall across the street. He put his feet down and leaned forward—a little startled. It was her, the girl with the hat from the bar. She looked older—framed by the lamplight—and her painted face scanned the people milling about the street, resting on some before darting swiftly to others.

A prostitute, searching for potential clients. And that shouldn't have surprised him, but it did. And he should have moved on, found something better and more interesting to do, but for reasons he couldn't define he sat on the balcony and watched her.

Watched her until a sleazy-looking man in a worn-out suit pressed a wad of cash into her hand and led her away with an arm around her shoulders.

And that shouldn't have made him angry.

But it did.

* * *

The next day found him in the same bar, staring down into the same drink, which sloshed gently against the sides of what was probably the same glass as the day before. It didn't even look like they'd washed it.

Not that he cared. All that really mattered was that the liquor burned nicely when it slid down his throat and that his idiot of a client was late _again. _Glancing at his cell phone for the tenth time in the past five minutes and feeling absolutely pathetic, he slammed his drink down and marched from the bar.

If he hadn't been out of work for the past two months because of the stupid Old Man, and halfway desperate to rebuild some semblance of a reputation so he didn't have to make a living off of petty theft or worse, honest labor, he would have already been out searching for this _client _so he could kill him nice and _slowly. _As it was, all he did was crash into someone as he rounded the corner.

He was only knocked back a step, but had a moment of inner horror at the knowledge that he might be getting _rusty. _Then he glanced down to the mess of hair, limbs, and coffee at his feet and felt a jolt of recognition.

"Ow," the now-familiar girl said as she pulled herself to her feet, setting her hat back on her head.

"You." He wasn't sure whether he was annoyed or pleased, and the indecision itself picked at the fraying edges of the cool professional he used to be.

She blinked in surprise and then _smiled, _of all things, though it didn't reach her eyes. "And you."

Placing himself firmly into the annoyed box, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and brushed past her, intent on going back to his booby-trapped hotel room, digging out his laptop, and booking himself the next plane ticket to anywhere.

"Wait!" She called, and he stopped—idly wondering if she had some kind of death wish because he was two seconds from killing her just to relieve a little of the storm that had been building inside of him since Junior walked away.

When he turned to face her, she seemed unconcerned by how close to death she was. "You owe me a coffee." She held up her coffee cup and waved it.

A lesser man would have gaped at the audacity. As it was, he just blinked and fought the brief urge to grind his teeth. "Sorry, dude, but _you_ bumped into me."

She smiled, again with the false cheerfulness, and pointed down the street. "I know a nice café less than a block from here. You can buy me coffee and leave, or stay, whatever."

"You still trying to run some kind of therapy business?" He asked sardonically, arching an eyebrow.

She raised her hands in surrender—coffee cup serving as a white flag of sorts. "I swear. You can ask all the questions, if you want."

Maybe he was lost, maybe he was desperate, maybe he was just plain bored out of his mind, but "sure" was terrifyingly easy to say.

* * *

"So…" He asked about five minutes later, taking a long swig of his cappuccino. It didn't burn as nicely as the liquor, but it was better than nothing. "… you got a name?"

The girl across from him toyed with her nonfat latte—which was so utterly _typical, _he'd been unable to resist a quiet scoff when she had ordered it—and seemed to suddenly consider the table more interesting than him.

"Belle."

Which wasn't her real name. Naturally. Everyone looked down or up when they were lying. Well, if they were an amateur.

"Nice name." His tone dispelled any pleasantry the comment might have held and he downed more of the admittedly good coffee.

"Do you have name?" Belle asked, finally lifting her head.

He met her gaze without blinking. "I thought I got to ask all the questions."

She laughed bitterly into her latte—eyes tinged with dark humor. "You know, you are _just _like all the other guys in this town."

For some reason, that bothered him, and the fact that it did bothered him even more.

"Guerrero," he bit out, resting his arms on the table and glowering at her.

Belle lifted a delicate eyebrow. "You don't look Spanish."

A smile tugged insistently at the corner of his mouth, lifting it before he could stop it. "And you don't look like a Disney princess."

"Belle is a perfectly respectable name!" She argued, fighting her own smile.

"So is Guerrero," he answered coolly, draining his cup.

"Touché." She raised her cup in a mock toast—smiling openly and almost brightly.

Guerrero leaned back in his chair, letting his hands rest casually on his knees. "So, Belle, what do you do for a living?" He kept the tone conversational, light and unassuming, but he could still see her smile crack at the edges.

Interesting.

She shrugged, trying too hard to be casual. "I'm a consultant of sorts." Good dodge, but her voice hitched in the middle in way that was so obvious it was almost painful. "What do you do?" Deflection, nice touch.

"I'm a consultant of sorts, too." The mocking note in his voice made the muscles in Belle's jaw clench and her fingers curl around her cup tightly, but she didn't call his transparent bluff, and he found some of his latent annoyance at her draining away. She knew how to pick her battles, at least.

"You live in the French Quarter?" He breezed them to the next topic when the silence packed itself too full of tension.

Belle brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and gave a small smile—something in her eyes lighting up with what looked close to genuine happiness. It seemed, in spite of everything stacked against it and the way it exploited her, she still loved this place. And people called _him _insane.

"Yeah. I have a small apartment I share with some friends."

"Sounds nice." He rested an arm on the table and watched as she took another sip of her latte, which was still close to half full.

"Are you here on business?" She ventured after another pregnant pause.

He smirked, tilting his head to the side. "What do you think?"

The question was meant to be sarcastic, because while he may not have been annoyed at her anymore, he didn't have to _like _her—she was just a way to pass the time. But to his surprise she pursed her lips in thought.

"Well, I doubt you would spend all day in a bar if you were vacationing. Then again, this might be the drowning-your-sorrows-until-you-forget-everything-bad-in-your-life kind of vacation, but you don't seem like that kind of person. So, business it must be, though I don't think it's going well, because you _do _seem on edge and you're still spending all day in a bar, actually drinking no less." She finished with a flourish of her cup and a long swig.

He had to admit, he was maybe, possibly, slightly impressed. So she had more going on upstairs than he'd first thought, and a good pair of eyes. He would have to rework his first impression of her, and against his better judgment, she was becoming more than something to pass the time.

"Not bad. Not gonna pour my heart out, though. Nice try, therapist." He raised his empty coffee cup in a satirical copy of her earlier gesture.

She laughed and he got the impression that if he'd been sitting next to her, she would have slapped his arm or something else that might have ended in broken bones. "I _wasn't _trying to host a therapy session, I swear."

Guerrero leaned back in his seat again, putting his legs up on the empty chair beside him and crossing his arms. "Watch yourself, Disney princess. I can see right through you." It came out joking, but he meant it on many levels deeper than the ice-thin surface they were maintaining.

Belle merely giggled again, but the shadows were back in her eyes and they told him she knew about the staircases and subtleties littering their "friendly" conversation.

"Well, maybe, _I _can see right through you, too."

A twinge of paranoia ran down his spine, but he ignored it because her eyes were sad and he thought for a minute he saw a warped kind of sympathy pass through them but that ice they were skating on quickly froze over it again. Whatever she thought she saw wasn't in the same ballpark, city, or state as the truth, and he took comfort in that fact. She would have to be a _psychic _or something to figure out what was going on in his life.

"I doubt it," he fired back with another smile and went to order a second coffee.

When he came back, he sat down, took another long sip, and asked her what her favorite color was. After that it was easy to get lost in meaningless conversation, punctuated by quiet laughter and smiles. And an hour later, he realized that he might actually be having a good time.

But his phone never rang, and that was impossible to ignore—even with the bright-eyed Disney princess across from him.

* * *

He wanted to break something. Or better yet, he wanted to _shoot _something, preferably a person in a suit with a ridiculous amount of money to throw around. Like his supposed client.

Two days. The man had kept him waiting _two days, _and that was so audacious and intolerable it was unprecedented. He was worth more than this. He was _better _than this, a thousand times better. People used to trip over themselves to hire him and the underworld trembled at his name. But all that was Before. Before Junior left in a hurricane that upended his world, before the Old Man had decided to punish him for letting his surrogate son walk away, and before he managed to turn himself into his own worst enemy.

Because if he was going to be brutally honest, this was only partly about the Old Man. The rest had to do with how he felt every time he raised a gun to someone's head, how he saw the barrel of the gun staring down at him, and how Junior had _walked away _and _let him live. _The rest was the storm building up over the ice plain that had been his heart for decades and the cracks that were starting to appear in the iron walls he'd built around his conscience.

The Old Man was destroying his business, but he was destroying _himself, _and that made him furious.

Raking a hand through his already-tousled hair, he glanced between his laptop and the cell phone lying innocently on his bed. The sensible and more importantly, dignified, thing to do would be to book the next flight to wherever struck his fancy and continue his search for work, but this man was willing to pay a small fortune for this job—a job that would be most likely be so simple a well-trained monkey could do it and wouldn't require him to kill innocent people.

The last thought, floating unbidden up through the ice, set his teeth on edge.

Maybe if he shot Junior the next time he ran into the man, it would put an end to whatever this was.

Right now, however, he had a choice to make: dignity or a small fortune that could keep him on his feet and in the clear for months, maybe even years.

Or he could do the less responsible and most likely completely stupid thing and go drown himself in alcohol, which sounded much more appealing at the present moment.

He was a man of action, not brooding like a teenage girl in a soap opera. If Junior could have seen him now, seen the destruction one act of mercy had wrought on him, the ex-assassin would've died laughing.

Snarling under his breath, he stood and moved to retrieve his coat. A rap on the door stopped him in the middle of the room. Frowning, he glanced at the digital clock flashing on the nightstand. Two a.m.. Not housekeeping, then. He spun and pulled a knife out of his suitcase, gripping it tightly before wrenching open the door, hauling the person into the room, and slamming them up again the wall.

Kicking the door closed, he held the knife to his captive's neck and blinked in shock.

Belle gaped back at him.

"How did you find me?" he hissed, moving the knife closer threateningly.

"I saw you," Belle gasped, shaking in his grip. "Last night. You were on the balcony. I know this room. I've been here before."

"So why are you here now?" His grip on her shoulder was bruising and he could feel the paranoia coursing through him. If there _had _been more to her statement about seeing right through him that afternoon, he could have a problem on his hands.

"I need your help." Her gaze was desperate—pleading and _honest. _

Awesome.

With a frustrated sigh, Guerrero released her and stepped back, lowering the knife to his side. "Sorry, Princess, already bought you coffee. You've used up your quota on favors."

"Someone's trying to kill me." She stepped further into the room as though she hadn't heard him and the feeble lamplight cast heavy shadows on her face.

"I'm still not seeing how that's my problem." He wondered idly if he would have to bodily shove her out of the door to get to her leave. Or throw her off the balcony. It wasn't shooting someone, but hey, it might be enough to relieve some of the tension thrumming through him like a bunch of tripwires.

Belle dragged rough fingers through her hair, gaze on the ceiling, before she pinned him with another frantic stare. "I didn't know where else to go."

"How about the cops? I hear they can be useful sometimes."

"I can't go to the cops!" She cried, clenching her fists.

"Why not?" He dropped the knife on the bed and folded his arms in front of his chest, arching a derisive eyebrow at her. "Your consulting job not entirely legal?"

She took two steps forward and suddenly she was right in his face, which took guts, he had to admit, even if it made him want to hit her. "Stop toying with me! I know you saw me last night. You _know _why I can't go to the cops."

"Fine." He shrugged a little of the tension out of his shoulders. She was far too close for comfort, but he didn't want this to end with him having to flee the city. "But we're back to the part where this is not my problem."

Belle backed up a step and raked her hair out of her eyes again, searching for a solution she wasn't going to find. "I'll … I'll pay you!" She snapped her fingers triumphantly and pointed at him with a dramatic thrust of one hand. "That's it. I'll pay you."

He briefly wondered if she was trying to make him laugh, but her eyes were blazing and serious, which made this all the more hilarious. "Fine, ten thousand dollars."

Her expression was priceless enough to make him wish for a camera—all round eyes and pale skin and comical gaping. "W-what?"

"Ten thousand dollars. That's my fee. Take it or leave it, Disney." He adjusted his glasses and watched her flounder for a long moment, trying desperately to rally herself.

"That's insane!" She yelled at last, jumping back into angry territory.

Why did people always have to yell? It rarely accomplished anything except making them look like idiots. "Really? Well, I got a guy who's willing to pay me ten times that amount for a job not nearly as tough." He shrugged carelessly. "What you're asking, that's a lot of work."

Belle sighed and some of the fight drained out of her with the sound. Rubbing her forehead, she let out a burst of mirthless laughter. "You're right. This is stupid. I should have known I could never win against him anyway."

That piqued his curiosity. "Killer Dude?"

He watched as she walked to the balcony door and stared out at the city, leaving her back to him—a stupid mistake. It was halfway amazing she'd managed to survive this long with someone powerful gunning for her.

This guy must've been a real idiot. Or hired stupid people.

"Yeah," Belle said after a pregnant pause. "His name's Duke."

Guerrero chuckled, finding the irony of that too humorous to take seriously. "Duke and Belle. You guys sure have a nice Disney theme going there."

Belle didn't seem to notice the obvious hilarity. "He's a really powerful man. Kind of my pimp …I guess."

"Let me guess," he leaned against the wall and met her eyes in the glass reflection, "pompous dresser, lot's of jewelry, total sleazebag with money to waste."

a.k.a. Pathetically easy target.

Her lips quirked up in a fleeting smile. "Something like that."

"So why does he want to off one of his precious princesses?"

Belle rested her head against the glass and sighed again. "I want out, and he doesn't agree."

"Great. Nice and cliché." He pushed off the wall, feeling the restless energy racing through the way it had been for weeks, and took a step forward so that his face appeared in the glass next to hers. Through the dirty reflection, he could see her blazing eyes.

Angry again. Honestly, this chick had worse mood swings than the Old Man.

"Who wouldn't want out? This is no life!" She whirled to face him, making him tense at her proximity again. "I don't even feel alive anymore. Like I'm even human. I just …" She trailed off and looked away.

"As much as I love sob stories," Guerrero stepped into her silence with false cheer dripping from his voice, "there's a simple solution to your mess. Just let him kill you."

She jerked her head back to him again, hair whipping with the violent motion and he had to take a calculating step back to avoid getting hit in the face. "What?"

"Hey, I'm just saying, dude." He lifted his hands in a placating gesture that was half-hearted at best. "You let him off you, you get out, he gets what he probably paid for, and I get my peace and quiet back. It's a win-win-win situation."

Belle surprised him again. "He's not going to be the one to kill me." Her voice was low and sharp, like a dozen knives. "He's controlled my life. I'm not about to let him control my death, too. When I die, it's going to be on _my _terms, not _his." _

Strangely enough, that made sense. And as she stood there with fire in her eyes and fury in her fists, something shifted inside him and he saw someone worth a little bit of his respect. Whatever he was feeling—the tiny, growing desire to help—was all Junior's fault and Guerrero would be sure to let the man know that before he shot him.

But this was also the way to relieve some of the suffocating boredom. He'd go with that.

"How much you got on ya?" He asked after several drawn out seconds of silence.

She blinked and confusion rapidly replaced the fire. "What?"

He rolled his eyes and held out a demanding hand. Her eyes widened in understanding and she quickly pulled a wad of cash out of her pocket, handing it to him with only a trace of hesitancy. "There's a little over a hundred dollars there."

"I don't believe this," Guerrero muttered to himself as he swiftly counted the cash. One hundred and twenty-six dollars. He hadn't been paid this little since he was still in school.

"Okay this," he held up the cash for emphasis as he turned his attention back to her, "will get you twenty-four hours. This whole mess doesn't clear up by then, you're on your own, Disney. No buts or I'lljust kill you myself, kay?"

Belle nodded so rapidly she pulled off a decent imitation of a bobble-head doll.

Pocketing the cash, Guerrero glanced at the clock again. Three-thirty. "You can sleep on the floor."

"Wait …" Belle bit her lip nervously as he raised a questioning eyebrow. "How are you going to fix this in twenty-four hours?"

"What are you, stupid?" He picked up the knife from the bed for her to see, and the light glinted menacingly off the blade. "I'm going to kill him. It's fast, easy, and kind of what I do. Any more questions?"

Now she shook her head so fast it was amazing she didn't get whiplash. Rolling his eyes again, Guerrero set the knife on the bedside table and tossed her a blanket and a pillow.

"Good night, Disney."

* * *

"Wake up, Disney." Guerrero nudged the sleeping girl with the toe of his boot, adjusting his duffle over his shoulder.

Belle jolted awake almost immediately, shying away from him and blinking at her surroundings with disoriented eyes.

"What time is it?" She asked as she climbed to her feet and smoothed out her clothes.

"Eight. Hurry up. We're switching motels."

"Why?" Belle began piling her hair up in a messy bun, securing it with some bobby pins she pulled from her back pocket. Her make-up had smeared during the night, increasing the raccoon look and she set about getting that under control next.

At least she was fast.

"In case somebody followed you here."

"I was careful," Belle insisted as she shrugged her jacket onto her shoulders.

"Of course you were," Guerrero agreed dismissively. "Let's go."

They stuck to the shadows as they left the motel and Guerrero chose a winding, erratic path that eventually ended at another motel only two streets over from their previous one. He checked in under a false name and got themselves a room on the top floor.

Guerrero dumped his duffle on the bed and began unpacking, spreading equipment and weaponry all over the mattress. Belle watched over his shoulder with wide eyes. "Do you really need all that?"

He frowned, feeling his already tattered patience beginning to evaporate. "You're hovering. Go comb your hair or something."

She huffed, but mercifully backed away and sank into a rickety chair in the corner that creaked beneath her weight. Silence only punctured by the clicking of guns and laptop keys reigned for several minutes as Guerrero efficiently sorted everything and stowed what he wouldn't need.

"So this Duke guy. Tell me about him," he said at last, zipping up the duffle.

Belle sighed, and he got the impression she was massaging her temple again. "Well, you pegged him pretty well. He's a real sleazebag, alright, but he's got a lot of money. He runs a bar on Bourbon that makes a good profit and is a hangout for all sorts of shady people. He's got his hands in more than just prostitution—gambling, debt collecting, you name it, he's probably stuck his fingers in it. He's pretty paranoid, so he's always got thugs hanging around him, and they're … they're pretty brutal."

"I bet they are." He didn't bother to hide his amusement.

Again, she either didn't catch on or ignored him. "Yeah. They went after this guy who owed Duke money once." She shuddered. "It wasn't pretty."

"Okay, let's get one thing clear, dude." Guerrero dropped the duffle on the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed, resting his hands on his knees. "Those guys are preschool level. They won't be a problem."

Belle raised her chin defiantly. "And what level are you?"

Guerrero smirked. "A lot higher than that."

This whole thing was laughably easy. He could probably kill a man like Duke in his sleep with both arms tied behind his back and a broken leg. It almost wasn't worth the hundred and twenty-six dollars she had given him, but at least it had entertainment value.

"So," Belle leaned forward and clasped her hands together, looking at him inquisitively, "what's the plan?"

Guerrero merely smirked again.

* * *

The bar looked exactly like every other one lining Bourbon street, if a little more crowded than most. Belle hugged his side, staring up at the balcony with apprehensive eyes.

"Duke usually conducts most of his business on the second floor. That's kind of his office." She shook her head. "I can't believe you're just going to waltz in there and kill him in broad daylight."

"Cameras?"

"Just one. Not many people try anything with Duke."

"Course not," Guerrero scoffed. "He's a giant fish in a tiny pond."

"Yeah," Belle agreed as they crossed the threshold into the seedy bar, instantly drawing the eyes of several patrons and a few-intimidating thugs hugging the shadows. "And he's got sharks protecting him."

"Preschool level, remember? Now stick to the plan."

Guerrero grabbed Belle's arm and pulled her toward a small cluster of brutes near a back table. They looked up as the pair approached and Guerrero saw their hands moving toward their belts, hovering noticeably over their hidden guns.

Amateurs. All muscle and no brain.

Yanking Belle to a stop, Guerrero smiled disarmingly at them. "Hey, dude. I found the girl Duke was looking for."

They traded confused glances before one stepped forward menacingly, forcing Guerrero to crane his neck to maintain eye contact. "Who're you?"

"The guy who found the girl Duke was looking for. Now you gonna let me in to see Duke or not, dude?"

More confused glances. They might as well have been scratching their heads. Finally, the one crowding his personal space turned to a guy on his right that could've been his twin. "Go tell Duke he's got a visitor."

The other man nodded and disappeared through a door a few feet away. The stairs creaked as he ascended and when he vanished from view, the others focused back on the motley pair in front of them.

"How'd you find her?" Thing One asked gruffly.

"Bumped into her."

"Where?"

"Couple streets over from here."

"Now look, you…"

Belle was doing a decent job of looking terrified as Thing One's face slowly began to turn red and every minute or so she would make a feeble attempt to break free, but on the whole she possessed the air of one condemned. Which was a nice touch, in his opinion.

The stairs groaning shattered the stalemate between Guerrero and Thing One. Thing Two came into view and whispered in Thing One's ear. The head thug nodded and peered down at Guerrero. "You can go up."

He sounded upset, probably at not being the one to find Belle, and that made everything all the more fun.

"Don't feel bad," Guerrero jibed as he ambled past the giant. "I just have better luck, dude."

He ignored both the frustrated click of a gun and Belle's incredulous look.

Thing Two led them up the stairs and through a weathered door into an expansive room. More thugs and other crime drama stereotypes —mainly scantily clad women—milled about, engaging in hushed conversation or trading meaningful looks. It definitely looked like a sleazebag's office, which meant they were in the right place. The only downside was the amount of witnesses they would have, but he wasn't sure what he could do to change that as they were herded toward a large desk in the middle of the room, near the windows that opened onto the balcony.

A blob of a man occupied the cheap office chair, dressed in a gaudy suit and covered in necklaces and other sparkly jewelry. Guerrero suppressed a snort of derision. The man might as well have painted a target on his back.

Belle shook beneath his fingers.

"Welcome," Duke said with a magnanimous smile, and an overly theatrical wave of his hand. "I see you've found Belle."

Guerrero dragged Belle up to the desk and kept a steady grip on her arm. "Sure did, dude." This close, the man's cologne was overpowering and certainly gag-worthy.

Duke stroked his stubble-coated double chin. "One thing that I'm not clear on. How'd you know about her? I ain't seen you here before."

"I'm new in town and I have good ears," Guerrero answered glibly. "Figured this would be a good way to settle in with the right people."

The greasy man in front of him smiled, puffing up like a peacock. "You figured right."

Oh, this was ridiculous.

"So, one grand and she's yours, dude."

Duke arched his bushy eyebrows. "A thousand dollars? Are you serious?"

"Dead serious. Unless you want to throw in another five hundred and I can kill her for you." Guerrero pulled a syringe out of his coat pocket and held it up for Duke to see.

The pimp squinted at it, brows drawn together in puzzlement. "What's that?"

"Poison. Kills instantly. End result looks like a drug overdose. It would save you a lot of clean up, dude," Guerrero said as Duke stood up and moved around his desk, wanting a closer look at the poison. He released his grip on Belle when Duke got to his side and she shifted away, eyeing the thugs nervously.

"So, for fifteen hundred dollars you would kill her for me and make it look like an accident?" The dirt bag asked dubiously.

Guerrero idly twirled the syringe. "Bingo."

Duke snorted. "I think I'll take my own chances, pal."

Guerrero took a deliberate step forward, hiding the syringe between them. "Your loss, dude." And then he jammed the syringe into Duke's chest.

Duke gasped and swayed on his feet, held up by Guerrero's fist in his jacket. Behind them, Belle pulled a gun from beneath her shirt, aiming it at the stunned lackeys with trembling hands.

"The first person who moves dies!" she yelled.

Guerrero inwardly winced at the movie-like quality of the cheesy line and glared up at Duke's bulging eyes. "Guess I'm the bigger fish, dude." He released his hold on the brute's coat and stepped back, drawing his gun before the body hit the floor with a loud thud.

Tension coursed through the room as the lackeys darted nervous eyes between Duke's prone form and the guns now pointed at their faces. Shocked murmurs rose up and hands hovered instinctively over weapons. Belle was shaking—wide-eyed and doing a passable impression a meth addict—but she didn't lower her weapon.

Guerrero glanced around and rolled his eyes. "Please. Who here actually liked the guy?"

Stunned silence.

"Didn't think so. You're welcome." He nodded at Belle. "Let's go."

They backed up slowly—past Duke's desk and out onto the balcony. Guerrero latched the door behind them and nudged Belle toward the left, guiding her around the side of the building to a set of iron stairs that wound their way down to the main street. She tripped her way down them, still clutching the gun in a white-knuckled grip, and leaned heavily against the side of the building once her feet touched the cobblestones.

Guerrero descended after her and paused to untangle the gun from her fingers, sliding both weapons beneath his shirt with the ease of a professional.

"Come on," he said when she glanced at him—body still wracked by miniature earthquakes, but eyes strong. "I'll buy you one last coffee."

He didn't know why he offered. The simplest thing would have been to walk away and leave her quaking in the alley because he'd done what she asked and he certainly didn't owe her anything. But it still felt like there was something left, an ending that needed to happen, and it was bugging him like an itch he couldn't scratch.

"Okay," Belle replied, pushing off the wall and following him out into the crowded street.

The sun was setting again trailing bright colors across the sky, and as the lamps flickered to life the streets began to fill with the usual revelers. Guerrero led Belle through the crowd by the arm, keeping her close in case someone had decided to be moronic and come after them.

No one did, and there was nothing but lights and colors and the woman at his side.

* * *

"I can't believe it," Belle muttered as she stirred her tea—comfortably seated in a café on Burgundy Street. "You _literally_ just walked in and killed him. Didn't even bat an eye."

Guerrero shrugged, dunking his tea bag into the steaming mug in front of him. "Told you, he was a tiny fish."

"No kidding. That must make me plankton." Belle's chuckle was humorless and shadowed.

"So what next?" Guerrero asked, changing the subject. "You going to have your picket fence life in the suburbs?"

It was her statement, he realized as she stared down into her mug—her earlier assertion that she didn't want Duke to be the one who killed her, but she didn't necessarily want to live. That was what was bothering him like a fly buzzing around his head because it didn't make _sense. _Suicide was not only weak and pathetic, it was _stupid. _She had to have been bluffing, but the sliver of ice cold doubt running down his spine demanded that he find out for sure.

Belle shook her head, breaking the uneasy stalemate. "Once you get into this life, it's really hard to get out of it."

"Sure it is. Go get on a bus to somewhere and start over."

"That's how I ended up here," Belle said with a bitter-sharp smile, pushing her tea away from her. "Guerrero, there will always be another city, another red light district with another boulevard and another Duke. No matter what I do."

Guerrero gave her an unimpressed look. "Yeah. It's called life sucks and then you die. Haven't you seen the bumper stickers?"

Her eyes froze over. Great, mad at him again. "Thank you for everything you've done." She pushed back from the table with a loud scrape of iron against pavement and stood. "I'll be going now."

And just like that she turned and walked away.

The storm inside of him, stirred up by Junior's departure and his damn _mercy, _roared. With a private snarl of frustration, he slapped some cash down on the table and chased her out into the street.

"Dude, I didn't spend so much time saving your butt for a lousy hundred bucks only to have you go kill yourself at the first opportunity" he spat at her back.

Belle pivoted to face him—hair whipping and eyes flashing. "I never said I wanted to live! Only that I didn't want Duke to kill me."

There was an earthquake inside of him, or a maybe a tidal wave. Either way, _something _was howling and he was _furious _with this selfish waste of space. "Taking the coward's way out? You seemed better than that to me, dude. Guess not."

The lamps reflected glittering light off the water gathering in Belle's eyes. "I have nothing left, Guerrero. There's nothing left."

"Then find something!" Guerrero hissed, stepping close and pinning her with the full weight of his stare.

He didn't understand why this was so important, or if it was even about her anymore, but he couldn't think past the blood roaring in his ears and the splintering ice inside his chest. It felt like the edge of a cliff he'd been inching toward for months, since Junior didn't pull the trigger, and he couldn't _stop. _

"What do you live for?" Belle asked instead of yelling back and the question was so unexpected it drew him up short.

"Money, the thrill of a challenge, fast cars and easy women. Take your pick," he fired off quickly, backpedaling toward cavalier.

"You're lying," Belle accused and her eyes were penetrating as they locked with his. "You don't know, do you?"

He crossed his arms and tried to look impassive, but he couldn't divert the revelation dawning in Belle's gaze.

"You're as lost as I am. Why else would you be here, wasting away in a bar and waiting for life to come ringing?" She gestured to his pocket, where the bulge of his cell phone was visible through his jeans.

"I'm in a rut, sure," he replied, latching onto indifference and clinging with everything he had. "Doesn't mean I'm about to go jump off a bridge, dude. That's just pathetic."

Belle gave him a teary smile and in the breath of a moment, something ended. "Or maybe it's brave. Good-bye, Guerrero. Thanks again."

He let her go this time, watching until her back had vanished into the crowd before stalking into the closest bar and ordering the strongest liquor he could think of.

* * *

Four hours and not nearly enough alcohol later, he felt the walls closing in and left the bar for as much fresh air as possible in the heart of New Orleans. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he stood on the sidewalk and watched a girl in heavy makeup and a fake blond wig trying to sell her wares to passing customers, not far from a man in a top hat dancing in front of yet another bar.

He _hated _the French Quarter.

But he hated himself far more. Because he hadn't been able to get her out of his head.

Taking his glasses off, he rubbed his eyes with a tired sigh, lamenting the fact he hadn't managed to get himself drunk enough to forget the past twenty-four hours. Instead, he had sat and brooded—about life and Junior and stuck-up, inept clients, the Old Man and the belle of the boulevard who had rattled something inside of him

He wanted to hate her as much as he hated himself, and a part of him did—because she was _right. _In the span of five minutes she'd cracked his mask and exposed what he'd been shying away from for months. Maybe it took a lost, stubborn fool to know another lost, stubborn fool. That was what they both seemed to be.

The abyss was still staring back at him, and a part of him he thought he'd crushed was begging to jump off and test his wings—fly away to a life that _meant _something. And that was stupid, so utterly moronic, because life was a pointless, random, messy thing that dragged you through agony and shadows before ending and then leaving you utterly forgotten beneath the dirt.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Shadows to shadows. House always wins.

But he couldn't shake the persistent, nagging feeling that there should be _more _than that.

Was this how Junior had felt? Was this what had driven him to walk away from the only family and life he knew?

He was starting to long for a conversation with the guy instead of putting a bullet through his skull.

Sighing again, he blinked up at the cloudy night sky—glasses dangling limply from one hand. He was a man of action—a man who sorted things into neat and tidy little boxes that fastened with iron locks so he didn't have to deal with messy crap like this—and he was tired of moping and waiting for his life to sort itself out.

He sucked in a ragged breath and held, calculating mind racing as it weighed plans and options and a hundred thousand roads spiraling down from this moment. Then he let the pent up air leave his lungs in a long exhalation and _decided.

* * *

_

It took three bars, harsh interrogations of numerous prostitutes, and several blatant death threats before he uncovered the location of her apartment—a rundown building in the southern corner of the French Quarter. He took the rickety stairs two at a time, driven forward by a sense of urgency he had learned to trust.

He skidded to a halt in front of her apartment door and tried to control the butterflies doing barrel rolls in his stomach. He _needed _save her, because maybe then he would finally understand why Junior had gone off the reservation.

Maybe then he could finally lay this all to rest.

Too harried to deal with picking a lock—even one as simple as her front door—he kicked it open, splintering the old wood with the force of his blow.

When darkness and the lingering fragrance of death greeted him, he knew he was too late.

He was too late and as he looked down at her still, ashen form spread out on the bathroom tiles, cold, searing understanding began to creep in.

* * *

_**Now **_

"Damn it, Disney," Guerrero whispered, raking a hand through his hair in aggravation and grief.

Sighing heavily, he crouched down and gently closed her eyes. He paused there a moment to hang his head and grieve, but only a moment because life moved on even if it never forgot. Standing, the assassin left the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

The apartment was dark and still. Lamplight trickled in through the open blinds—feebly trying to push the shadows away. Guerrero turned in a slow circle, taking in the ratty couch, the scuffed kitchen counters and the chipped dishes piled in the sink, the dust gathering on the scarred floorboards …

…and the white envelope resting on the coffee table.

Feeling a spark of curiosity, he stepped forward and peered down, blinking through the darkness and wane light. _G _was written on the surface of the envelope in scrawling script.

He let out a tiny laugh of sheer disbelief and scooped the envelope off the table. She had left him a note in the off-chance he would come looking for her. Or maybe she'd known all along, because they were terribly alike in a few small ways. Turning the envelope in his hands, he felt a wistful smile pull the corner of his mouth up.

Something settled in his chest. It wasn't peace, not yet, but it was a start.

Pocketing the envelope, Guerrero strode from the apartment without a backward glance and thumped his way down to the first floor. Locating the landlord's apartment, he pounded on the door.

A balding man sporting an impressive beer belly and clad in only boxers and a bathroom wrenched the door open, frowning at the stranger on his doorstep in a mixture of confusion and anger.

"Hey, dude," Guerrero greeted amiably, "there's a dead girl in 3B. Thought you should know."

He turned to go, intent on leaving the man to his amusing spluttering, but the landlord grabbed his arm. "W-wait, what did you say?"

He stared at the fingers curled around his bicep and leveled the man with a pointed glare. The landlord winced and let go, retreating into his doorway.

"I said there's a dead girl in 3B," Guerrero maintained his pleasant tone in spite of the emotions churning through him. "You might want to get someone to take care of the body."

He stalked away—the hapless landlord gaping at his back—and headed back into the muggy Louisiana air, continuing down the street with narrow-minded purpose and uncaring of the people forced to scramble out of his way or risk being ploughed into.

He had a letter to read.

* * *

_Guerrero—_

_ If you're reading this then you came back for me, after all. I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused you, and I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to keep going, but please don't think that you didn't help. Saving a person's life doesn't always mean keeping them alive. So thank you, again, for looking out for a stubborn idiot like me. _

_ I hate to do this to you, but you've probably realized that I'm selfish as well as stubborn. I have a final favor to ask you. You don't have to agree. In fact, I hardly expect you to. After all, I'm the one who should be owing you. _

_But, I know you're looking for a reason to live, and I think this might be it. _

_ You see, I have a son. He's going on a year and two months old now. I don't know where his father is, and I hope he never comes back. The man was a worthless waste of space I was unfortunate enough to think I loved. My parents have been looking after him, hoping I'll get my life on track. I love him, but I have no idea how to be a mother. I ran away from him not long after he was born and I have never worked up enough courage to go back. _

_ I wanted him to have a mother he can be proud of. As you know, I'm anything but that. _

_ But you, you're much stronger than I am . Do you think you could maybe look out for him? I'm not asking you to be involved in his life in any way, just make sure he's safe—check in on him now and then. _

_ Please? _

_ He lives in San Francisco with my parents. I've included the address. _

_ Like I said, this is far beyond my right. I will understand if you choose to burn this and never look back. I'm only plankton, right? _

_ Still, for the short time I knew you, I felt like I understood, if only a little. I was looking for an ending, and I found it. I think you're looking for a new beginning and I hope you find it, Guerrero. I really do. _

_ Belle _

Clutching the photo of a smiling baby, Guerrero wasn't sure whether to laugh incredulously or punch a hole in the wall.

"_Damn it_, Disney."

A sharp ring cut through his thoughts and he groped blindly for his cell phone. Tugging it free of his pocket, he stared at the UNKNOWN NUMBER flashing across the screen with a dark frown. The idiot in the suit was finally calling.

Life was finally calling.

He glanced at the photo, then back to the phone vibrating insistently.

Smiling grimly, he hurled the phone at the wall and watched it shatter into a million pieces across the floor.

* * *

_**After**_

The house looked like it belonged on the cover of a designer magazine with its neatly manicured lawn, pristine picket fence, and large porch. It was so disgustingly_ suburban _that he paused at the start of the sidewalk and debated getting back in his car.

This was a stupid idea. The worst he'd ever had.

But there was a red tricycle sitting on the lawn and there was a dead princess back in New Orleans with parents who deserved to know their daughter was never coming home. He understood now, and would have to tell Junior the next time he saw the man.

He understood and it _hurt. _

With a steadying breath, the soon to be ex-assassin hopped up the steps to the porch and rang the doorbell.

A woman looking to be in her early forties answered, blinking at him in confusion.

"Hi," he greeted, trying to be disarming.

"Can I help you?" she asked, dusting her hands on her flour-smeared apron.

He opened his mouth, readying an excuse, but the boy from the picture suddenly peeked around the woman's leg, staring up at him with wide blue eyes. His throat clenched up and he discovered that suddenly, he had nothing to say.

"I have to talk to you," he managed after an awkward moment of silence. "It's about your daughter."

The woman seemed severely taken aback. "You know something about Emma?"

Emma. It suited her.

"Yeah," he said softly, hating the woman's hopeful tone.

This was going to be unnecessarily hard. He could tell already.

"Come in," Emma's mother stepped aside, guiding the toddler out of the way with a motherly hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, kiddo," Guerrero smiled at the kid as he crossed stepped through the door.

The boy emitted an odd, high-pitched squeak and darted behind the woman again, hiding his face in her leg. She chuckled, patting his brown hair. "Don't mind Tommy, he's really shy."

"No worries."

He found he couldn't take his eyes off the boy as Emma's mother bustled them into the living room. One rarely ran into small children in his business and they both awed and terrified him. He couldn't remember what it was like to have such innocence—wasn't sure if he'd ever possessed it—and he inexplicably wanted to preserve it in this wide-eyed boy as long as possible.

"Have a seat, please."

Guerrero eyed the flower-printed couch in distaste and shook his head. "I'm fine, thanks."

The woman frowned, but didn't pressure him, seating herself and pulling little Tommy into her lap. Tommy continued to stare at Guerrero as if he was some soft of alien life form, but every time he tried to catch the kid's eye, the boy would dart his gaze away.

Cute kid, all things considered.

"So, what do you know about Emma?" The woman's eyes were brimming with hope. "Have you seen her? Is she all right?"

Sighing, Guerrero gestured at Tommy with a small wave of his hand. "You might not want the kid around for this."

The color drained from her face, but she nodded resolutely and leaned down to whisper in Tommy's ear. "Honey, why don't go play in your room while I talk to this nice man."

Guerrero had an inner laugh at being called _nice _of all things and watched Tommy scamper from the room, glancing over his shoulder repeatedly as he left.

"Now," Emma's mother said in a shaky voice, smoothing her pants in a nervous motion, "what do you have to tell me about my daughter?"

Staring into her open, fearful eyes, and picturing Tommy's smile, Guerrero hammered the final nail into the coffin holding his career as an assassin. "Emma's dead." The woman's expression cracked like porcelain. "She was working for a pimp in the French Quarter and wanted out. He didn't like that. I tried to keep her safe, but he got to her first. Sorry."

Emma's mother let out a strangled sob, but remarkably held herself together—much to Guerrero's relief. Comforting crying people was not his forte—unless it was with promises to put them out of their misery.

"How … how did you know my daughter?"

He quickly decided on a version of the truth. "I met her in New Orleans. She asked me to help her, but like I said, her pimp got her first. She told me about Tommy. Asked me to look out for him. You know, keep him safe."

"What did you … say your name was?" Emma's mother asked—tears spilling down her ashen cheeks.

"James Walker." An old alias—normal enough not to arouse too much suspicion.

"Mr. Walker," the woman managed a broken smile. "Thank you for what you did for my daughter. It sounded like you were close to her. But you really don't need to…"

"I want to," Guerrero cut in, and his fervent statement earned him a teary nod.

"Okay. Tommy seems to like you. I'm sure it would be fine if you dropped by once and awhile." She suppressed another sob and wiped at her eyes. "Again … thank you … for all you've done."

"Don't mention it," Guerrero mumbled, shifting his weight uncomfortably and feeling claustrophobic in this picture-perfect house across from a mother who had just lost a child. "I should go."

"Wait," Emma's mother stood and hurried to a desk in the corner of the sitting room. She bent and scribbled something on a piece of paper before extending it to him. He took it, raising a questioning eyebrow. "Our number. Call if you're ever in the neighborhood. I'm Alice, by the way."

She was _way _too trusting—dangerously so. Maybe it was a good thing he'd be watching their backs on occasion.

"Thanks, Alice," Guerrero said with a polite smile.

He turned to leave, but froze when he spotted Tommy hiding in the doorway, peering at him with those inquisitive eyes. Deciding to try his luck a second time, Guerrero fished the small stuffed animal he'd purchased at the airport out of his pocket and approached the kid slowly, holding the toy turtle out like a peace offering.

"Hey, Tommy. I got you something."

The little boy stared at the toy, transfixed, and it gave Guerrero enough time to crouch down carefully in front of him, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. It felt kind of like dealing with a wild animal.

"Here you go." He held out the little creature and after a moment of hesitation, Tommy snatched the turtle from his hand and rewarded him with a tiny smile. A little more at ease, Guerrero leaned forward conspiringly. "He seems to like you, dude. Take good care of him, okay?"

Tommy nodded and his smile widened as he hugged the turtle to his chest.

Guerrero cursed Emma to hell and back for not having enough strength to live for such a precious thing as the child in front of him.

She hadn't been kidding about selfish. And yet…

Packing that messy train of thought away for later inspection, Guerrero ruffled Tommy's hair and climbed to his feet, nodding a farewell to Alice, who had watched them with tear-streaked eyes and shaking shoulders.

"I'm sorry about your daughter," he murmured. "I'll show myself out." He patted Tommy's head one last time. "See you around, kid."

To his surprise, Tommy tugged his pant leg and smiled up at him. "You cwomin' back?" It was mostly garbled toddler speak, but Guerrero got the gist and something in his heart clenched.

"Sure, kiddo. I'll bring a friend for Mr. Turtle there."

"Pwomise?" Tommy asked.

"Promise. Now maybe you can help cheer up your grandma. She's kinda sad today."

The little boy nodded and let him go, waddling to his grandmother's side so he could show her his new stuffed animal. Guerrero took the opportunity to slip from the house, quietly closing the front door behind him. He paused by the red tricycle, feeling anger, grief, and a thousand other emotions that had broken through the ice all clanging around in his chest.

But above it all was that painful understanding.

Something to live for, indeed.

* * *

To say Junior was shocked to see him on his doorstep would have been an understatement. Guerrero could add it to few times he had ever seen the former assassin speechless.

"G-Guerrero?" His old friend stammered at last.

Guerrero smiled. "Hey, dude."

* * *

**P.S. I've pretty much come to the conclusion that almost all my one-shots will be inspired by music. If you haven't heard this song, give it a listen. It's very pretty. **


End file.
